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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22802260">in my heart it's still the night (and we'll stay here till the morning)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/courante/pseuds/courante'>courante</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Ambiguous/Open Ending, Costume Parties &amp; Masquerades, Fire, Illustrations, Injury, M/M, Maybe Magic Maybe Mundane, Non-Linear Narrative, Reverse Chronology, Supernatural Elements</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-02-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-04-28 08:15:44</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,306</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22802260</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/courante/pseuds/courante</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Logic told Shane this was probably a publicity stunt that Ryan had walked them into, and maybe he’d have a good time despite that. Collegiate secret societies don’t have public balls, and 30 year old Internet personalities hell-bent on exposing their activities aren’t actively invited to them— </p><p>But Ryan—</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Ryan Bergara/Shane Madej</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Shyan Valentine's Exchange 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>in my heart it's still the night (and we'll stay here till the morning)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/chapscher/gifts">chapscher</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>written for the Shyan Valentine’s Exchange 2020! i saw the masquerade prompt and yelled though it turned a lil sideways by the end... anyway! this was highkey influenced by the magnus archives (not an outright au, though i listened to so much of it during writing...) and local spooky rumors from uni :'). please mind the tags (especially re: the chronology) &amp; i hope you enjoy!</p><p>big shoutout to my non-buzzfeed fandom friends for listening to me scream about drafts for an entire month, y'all free now</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>“Things outside you are projections of what's inside you, and what's inside you is a projection of what's outside. So when you step into the labyrinth outside you, at the same time you're stepping into the labyrinth inside.”</p>
  <p>― <b>Haruki Murakami, Kafka on the Shore</b></p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p>
  <b>i.</b>
</p><p>“I don’t think it was the wiring.”</p><p>“You’re still trying to tell me ghosts set houses on fire?” Shane asked, incredulous even now, because the alternative was— Ryan looked up at him, and he found himself unable to turn away. “I— okay, look. Whatever happened, it wasn’t your fault.”</p><p>“Shane—”</p><p>“I’m still mad, but not tryna guilt trip you into that self-deprecating nonsense, dude.”</p><p>Shane looked at the ceiling, counting to ten and feeling Ryan’s weight on his chest, hand caressing his back. Breathe in, breathe out. If he closed his eyes, he could still see the morning light filtering in from the broken skylight above, reflected upon the water. It was real, like the cool Appalachian air, like Ryan was, would always be. “You’re still buying me a new phone.”</p><p>“Fuck.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>ii.</strong>
</p><p>Sometimes Shane wondered what it would’ve been like if he’d gently disposed of the invitation into his toilet while Ryan hadn’t been looking and gone on with his life blissfully unaware of the things that would transpire, and perhaps none of this would’ve happened.</p><p>But some things were simply not meant to be.</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>iii.</strong>
</p><p>October was misty up in those mountains. Oh, Shane had been in the Carolinas before, down the swampy coastline in the middle of summer, but the mountains were different. Fall was different.</p><p>The new episode was to be about an obscure fraternity that was, Shane came to realize a couple minutes into the ride out of Charlotte Douglas, located on the other side of the state.e. Something something he’d discovered a clue about a secret retreat in some-document-or-another procured by questionable means; Ryan had his ways of uncovering things, even if unorthodox or, as Shane regularly thought but never voiced, counterproductive. Shane wasn’t a stranger to those blogs run by people who probably shouldn’t be running blogs, but Ryan always insisted otherwise; that <em> this time </em>, his lead was genuine.</p><p>“So you got us invited to this...event.”</p><p>“Sure did.”</p><p>The society had been founded amid legends of chivalry and murder, where a student had perished fighting for the hand of his beloved. A moonlight duel, a despairing lover. It was the kind of thing Victorian novels were fond of expounding upon, and the kind of thing Shane found dubious in its melodrama. Of course truth was much simpler, as Ryan read to the audience: fabulous embellishments based upon word-of-mouth based upon facts lost to time. 1833 was a time where universities kept shitty records and students frequently dropped out as opposed to dying from ill-advised quarrels over the hands of fair maidens. No matter what the audiences thought.</p><p>Ryan was putting on dress shoes in the back of the rental van, and Shane was feeling the jetlag outside in the cool evening air. The rest of the team would meet up with them in Raleigh the next day to explore the actual castle, as this event— the ball, Ryan had put it, was only open to those invited.</p><p>It was as cult-y as it sounded on paper. Shane wondered how this even passed the legal team.</p><p>But he figured it out almost as soon as the question left his mouth; Ryan’s never been good at keeping a poker face. “I mean… I kinda didn’t tell them about this part?”</p><p>“How did— <em> Ryan </em>, what did you tell TJ and Devon.”</p><p>He <em> could </em> sound like a stern high school teacher if he really put his mind to it. Improv training taught Shane how to mimick and parody at a moment’s notice, but it never taught him how to react to the trace of guilt on Ryan’s face and the tiny smile that followed. It was simply too endearing it left him at a complete loss.</p><p>“Well, about that…”</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>iv.</strong>
</p><p>Ryan had come to his apartment one morning to deliver the news, in that hushed but excited sort of tone that Shane had come to know after all these years of working together huddled around blindingly bright screens and scripts and ouija boards. It was hard to recall the date now—his memory was a blur of color and frenzy and already borderline-unbearably warm, so perhaps early June. The letter had been haphazardly thrown on the coffee table and Ryan had barely sat down before he’d had his hands on Shane’s shoulder in a way that sent synaptic responses furiously scaling down his spine.</p><p>“Shane, I’ve figured it out.”</p><p><em> Shane, I’ve figured it out </em> . He’d heard those words before, perhaps not exact, but in spirit. Many times, in fact: those countless moments in Buzzfeed’s cafeteria or en route to their next shoot at three in the morning or on the sofa over some cheesy direct-to-TV flick and not enough popcorn to go around (a travesty.) A new <em> Unsolved </em>episode idea, a childhood realization, a revelation of the themepark logistics sort.</p><p>It could’ve been the most haphazard bullshit of an idea in the world and Shane would shake his head and say <em> no, fuck that, </em> but he’d go along with it anyway, because it was Ryan’s idea.</p><p>So he said—and <em> really </em>, what else could he have said other than— “Okay, let’s hear it.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>v.</strong>
</p><p>Shane’s curious about mystery, but not as much into the idea of endangering himself for things that could be explained by logic. Logic held that miracles were shams and psychics were frauds and secret societies were really just excuses for the scions of old money to party and drink in grand mansions away from prying eyes of the general public.</p><p>Logic told Shane this was probably a publicity stunt that Ryan had walked them into, and maybe he’d have a good time despite that. Collegiate secret societies don’t have public balls, and 30 year old Internet personalities hell-bent on exposing their activities aren’t actively invited to them— </p><p>But Ryan— </p><p>The chandeliers above them sparkled beautifully. It might have endeared the serene music and flowing wine to him, then. Shane was not drunk, no; he did not drink on the job (...or so he would say) unless necessary for the atmosphere of the episode. There were no cameras here tonight, and their phones were in a box at the front door. Not something he had really wanted to do, but apart from that it had seemed like a normal enough affair. Even the indoor river flowing through the middle of the dance hall did not seem so shocking, though he marveled at how there hadn’t been any tales of mold or scores of guests catching Legionnaires disease. Shane bent down and ran a hand through the lazy current, achingly conscious of how disapprovingly Ryan was looking at him— <em> this is a formal affair, dude </em>— and flicked some water at him.</p><p>People all around him were in their best dress and those gosh-darned masks reminiscent of his props from Ruining History. Something about a charity, he learned through snippets of conversation; of course, of course. </p><p>It was only when the soft music started and Ryan looked up at him tentatively and said <em> we should, you know, maybe dance a little like everyone else </em> that things really went to hell.</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>vi.</strong>
</p><p>“Just don’t say anything to provoke them, dude.”</p><p>Shane wasn’t scared; not of the rowdy group of students and professors and related professionals that must’ve populated the party, not of ghosts of tragic lovers or— whatever. Anyhow it was the other place on campus that was haunted, not this sprawling mansion, although he had his suspicions that there may be more stories to this place. It was too big to not contain those silly tall tales. Ryan would know.</p><p>Their rental disappeared down the length of the driveway, surely to one of the many parking lots they’d passed coming up here, near the Village and the guesthouses. The mountains loomed silently around them past the edges of the estate, misty as their name. Ryan looked more nervous than Shane’d ever seen him, which was— he wasn’t supposed to be afraid of socializing with weird rich people. That was Shane’s job.</p><p>He also looked ridiculous with that red feather mask haphazardly covering most of his face, and maybe that was what put on that self-consciousness, but Shane could forgive that. He patted Ryan’s hand in reassurance, hoping that it would bring some comfort, and Ryan looked up at him with that grin he’d use to steel himself for the worst parts of filming and nodded.</p><p>“Don’t you feel a little sexier with it on?”</p><p>“Yeah, I— ugh, don’t make me say that. You look like a dork.”</p><p>“So? That makes two of us.” Ryan laughed, the feathers on his face dancing softly as he exhaled.</p><p>“I suppose it does.”</p><p>“We’ll be fine, Ry,” Shane said firmly, noting the fact that he could already see their breath in the chilly night air, and the slight red across Ryan’s face. They walked towards the light of the party, the backs of their hands touching ever so slightly, and Ryan did not pull away.</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>vii.</strong>
</p><p>(Summer. It was a summer day not too long ago, Shane knew, white-hot pavements and fizzy orange flavor bursting in his mouth. Ryan was sitting next to him and they were talking about rain, languid in the pool seats under a deep green awning. He had a Fanta open and Ryan was giving him that smug look like he’d sniped a drink from it when Shane hadn’t been paying attention.</p><p>It was a company party, maybe. The sky was void of clouds and Ryan was saying something about how some people think ghosts are like water, have an affinity to it. That they flowed through invisible waterways like translucent fish crossing over to some world beneath this one. That all those ancient stories about rivers— the Styx, the Sanzu, the unnamed river of the dead flowing beneath the Zagros mountains, there must be some truth in that.</p><p>Shane had heard this conversation before, in London, down in that basement. The cold drafts coming up the old gaol and the whisper of the sewage pipes felt like a faraway dream even then.</p><p>After— he might’ve joked about how he was gonna dunk Ryan in some ghosts if he kept it up. Might’ve even made a motion towards him, or the pool. Ryan had ducked and swatted back at him, laughing, and put a hand on Shane’s thigh as if to steady himself. There was no name for that, the way he smiled just as the sun peeked through the awning at the right angle, framing a halo around his face. That seemed to set something alight inside him then.)</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>viii.</strong>
</p><p>They <em> were </em> dancing at some point. The lights were in his face, blinding him even through the itchy velvet mask, and then it was just Ryan. Back in the car they had rehearsed the story they would tell if anyone asked; that Ryan had been invited by a friend of a friend (true, as far as Shane knew, though it was more along the lines of a friend of an acquaintance who owed someone a favor), that Shane was the plus-one he’d registered, that (and this was for those who recognized them) what they were doing tonight was a strictly private affair and had nothing to do with shooting Unsolved.</p><p>Shane wondered if Ryan had to sign an NDA; <em> he </em> hadn’t, after all.</p><p>Ryan was wearing a suit, dark and crisp— not that royal blue one he seemed to love; perhaps it would call too much attention. That was rather disappointing, as Shane had grown quite fond of it. He also had a smear of vivid red on his chin that surely had come from those raspberry desserts Shane had seen earlier at the snack table. Silly of him to notice really, and sillier even when he reached up unprompted to wipe it away.</p><p>“Shane?”</p><p>“Sorry,” he muttered quickly as surprise flitted across Ryan’s eyes. “That was weird.”</p><p>Even the mask could not have hid the disappointment that followed, though Shane tried his best to not think of it even as Ryan’s hand tightened on his shoulder and the music seemed dimmer as they progressed through the dance. He hadn’t bothered to take lessons before coming, and neither had Ryan it seemed; clumsy steps followed by clumsy pulls, Ryan muttering something about Shane's awkward bigfoot gait in his usual fond, exasperated way. If there had been something rigid in his motions at the start of it, it was more familiar than not. And that was reassuring, just as much as he thought— he <em> knew </em>, surely, that Ryan felt the same way.</p><p>“Remember when—”</p><p>“New Orleans?” </p><p>“Surprised you remember,” Ryan said with a grin. The melody was a pleasant hum in the back of Shane’s mind, and when Ryan leaned closer with the acceleration of the violins he could feel some of the tension dissipating. “Considering how— how fuckin plastered we were.”</p><p>“We were <em> so </em> fucking out of it,” Shane laughed, narrowly missing another couple as they teetered close to the middle of the dance floor. He felt self-conscious all of a sudden, though nobody else seemed to mind, all absorbed in their own rhythms and beats. Those people looked solid enough; Shane had figured if half those things Ryan had been talking about were true they’d be dancing to a house full of ghostly frat boys, but all he saw was feather and velvet and paper-mache. Still...</p><p>“So your friend, is he real?”</p><p>“Of course he’s real! Tony— well, Roland said he’d be coming.” Ryan waved vaguely at a corner of the vast room, where several people had congregated. Shane could not see their faces, like he couldn’t see anyone else’s, and they seemed no different than the dozens of other attendees in their pastel evening gowns and dark tailored suits. </p><p>No different, and… Shane squinted, into the moving bodies and lingering perfume, and the world seemed to shudder for a moment. Ryan’s grip on him loosened the tiniest bit, then Shane could feel his nails dig into the fabric of his suit.</p><p>“Oh,” he whispered, and suddenly Shane remembered what he was most afraid of in the world that was not avocado pits or needles or people wandering dark alleys. “Oh, <em> fuck </em>.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>ix.</strong>
</p><p>“The castle had sprung forth upon the rock on which Peter Dromgoole died, in the spot his blood painted the ground deep crimson. And with it, the Order’s mystique grew.”</p><p>That was the story. That would be the end of it, a local legend that would fade into obscurity like any other. <em> Let it be a mystery </em>. </p><p>Except Ryan would never let it go. He never let anything go, no matter how much— </p><p>There were flames. That was real. The heat on his back and the screams and broken glass. The moon half-hidden beneath gray clouds watching them silently as it had watched Peter bleed out into the matted grass two centuries ago. The river beneath his feet crumbling into a chasm in the earth.</p><p>He was falling, falling, falling. As much as Shane loathed to admit it, something about it was real, the bursting feeling in his lungs and the dark after the fire.</p><p>
  
</p><p>The hand in his, familiar and cold like autumn springwater— that was real, too.</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>x.</strong>
</p><p>“In 1953 the society filed a complaint to the board of directors which resulted in records being sealed within the university library. Though they seem to have been more open about their existence as of late, there are few extant details of their activities, whether charitable or social in nature. That being said, that hasn’t stopped speculation from running rampant on the Internet, ranging from—”</p><p>“So you think they what… worship Satan? Practice ritual cannibalism? I mean, yeah, Franklin was in a sex cult, but this just sounds like a <em> really secretive frat </em> to me. They probably think it’s a hoot.”</p><p>“Wh— I didn’t <em> say </em> that, Shane, Jesus. You don’t think it’s weird though? Most frats aren’t… like that.”</p><p>“Ryan, <em> you </em> were in a frat. This stuff exists across America. Probably the world. Sometimes people just like secrets.”</p><p>“We did <em> not </em> practice ritual cannibalism. You all hear that?”</p><p>“Ol’ Bone-crunching Bergara, that’s what all your brothers called you.”</p><p>“Jesus, no.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>xi.</strong>
</p><p>“You remember what I found, doing that research?”</p><p>“Something—” Shane looked down, and though Ryan was clearly trying his hardest to keep it together it was obvious in the whites of his knuckles and the unsteadiness in his voice. There was no use mentioning it; fear would run its course, but for now at least one of them had to stay calm. “Can’t say I do.”</p><p>“Shane, you ass—”</p><p>“Oh, just tell me again,” Shane replied. The music changed again, gloomier than the previous one, and the murmurs around them had gone low. As had the lights, and the people seemed closer. Had there been so many invited here? “Tell me about Peter.”</p><p>“Peter? Oh. Right.”</p><p>Shane said nothing as Ryan talked. About what really happened to their dear subject (he dropped out and died in Florida later, because of course he did), about the identities of Miss Fanny (who did not exist, as far as Shane was concerned). About the statements from students who’d tried to break into the castle during a schoolwide protest and gotten themselves slapped with lawsuits. About rumors of ghost-lights in the cemetery and drunken revelry along the shores of Jordan Lake. </p><p>About how people loved mysteries—not because they really wanted to know anything, but because they couldn’t.</p><p>The music grew louder, and louder, and louder. Shane could feel Ryan’s feather mask brush against his neck as he pressed his face against Shane’s shoulder. It was hot, he realized as a drop of sweat slid noticeably down the back of his neck, and there was something acrid in the air beneath the perfume. But Ryan kept talking. Kept swaying to the music. Shane opened his mouth.</p><p>“They said there was something in the gardens,” Ryan cut him off. “Buried there—”</p><p>“Ryan—”</p><p>“Something was buried there, for a ritual.” His voice grew strained over the furious, growing chatter, and in the distance there was a sharp sound, not the crack of a gun, but fragile and strange all the same. “Peter’s cousin married into this family, you know. Shane.”</p><p>“I don’t follow.” And Shane did not want to, not anymore. He remembered seeing the expansive gardens around the estate, stretching into the hills, as they drove up the mountains. And underneath that, he tried to remember that video on their channel about public safety, about where to run, when things go to shit. Ghosts weren’t real, but his instincts surely were. “Ryan, I think it… it may be time to leave.”</p><p>“Y-yeah,” Ryan conceded, finally, his voice quavering. It was only when he let go of Shane’s waist that he felt a sharp pang across his skin under the fabric, so hard had Ryan been holding on. “You’re right, fuck it, calling it a night. Let’s get the fuck—”</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>xii.</strong>
</p><p>Later, if one had asked, Shane wouldn’t have been able to say when they’d said the words, if they’d actually said anything, when they’d quote unquote <em> gotten together </em>, because who can tell with these things, really? It wasn’t like the whole office hadn’t been betting on it in some form or another for a while now, that much he’d garnered already.</p><p>It was a mystery, the way Ryan looked at him sometimes; the open, earnest glances, the shy ones, the ones daring Shane to say something stupid or stubborn or sanctimonious. The way he refused to say some things out loud even now when he would for anything else, as much as Shane wanted him to, as much as he did not know if he was ready to hear them.</p><p>Some say you have to go through something wild to know if you’re ready. Shane never wanted that; he was a coward, perhaps, as much as he’d tease Ryan about those nonexistent spirits. A thousand rollercoasters later and perhaps they’d be something more. Even still, and even then—  </p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>xiii.</strong>
</p><p>They ran as the world burned, through the winter garden with no more windows, through dining rooms littered with broken porcelain and splintered rosewood. Through gilded arches and glowing lanterns too bright to Shane’s eyes. A sense of deja vu filled his mind, in that he’d done this countless times before, Ryan holding on to him for dear life in those Hollywood basements with mechanical ghosts and seasoned actors. Their screams then had been gleeful in terror.</p><p>He didn’t know where the others had ran; Ryan was faster and ahead of him, and he was yelling something from beneath the imposing mahogany doors up ahead, waving frantically.</p><p>A pipe or two had burst somewhere in the chaos, and the river was spilling over its banks. Shane slipped as his foot caught onto the remains of a fallen chandelier. The lukewarm water was not as refreshing as he’d hoped it to be— a silly thought to be having considering the circumstances. Shattered crystals dug into his arms as he struggled to his feet, and the world spun as he felt his feet give out underneath again.</p><p>“Shane!”</p><p>His eyes watered, though his mask had been discarded some time back; the beams groaned and crackled madly as Ryan dashed back towards him, his footsteps thundering in Shane’s ear. He reached out his hand, but Shane only saw fire.</p><p>Fire, and the crumbling roof reflected in the now too-cold river beneath him that seemed too deep to be real.</p><p>“I’m fine, I’m— Ryan, above you!”</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>xiv.</strong>
</p><p>Sometimes Shane wondered what it would’ve been like if he believed in ghosts. Silly thought, really. He wouldn’t be like Ryan, certainly, or maybe he would— funny how things work out, that. You move across the country for a chance at something new and sit next to someone who pilfers popcorn at the movies like you do, whose jokes complete yours and stands apart all the same.</p><p>Their reflections had glinted off the Dauphine’s courtyard pool as they waltzed to the music outside the hotel walls, never quite touching. <em> One, two, three, one, two, three, one </em>. No ghosts, just two clumsy boys trying their best. Ryan had tripped on a lounge chair after TJ stopped filming and Shane caught him, surprised and wheezing into the mic.</p><p>“Thought you were gonna let me fall in, sheesh.”</p><p>“Hey, I’m not that big of an asshole, you know.” Shane smirked behind his camera, maybe too proud that he’d still retained his senses after the wild night out. Then, perhaps emboldened by the soft jazz or the alcohol or the thought that they’d finally gotten a great place to stay tonight, “<em> You </em> wouldn’t let me fall, would you, Ryan.”</p><p>The moon above floated serenely in the pool, broken only momentarily by small waves. Ryan dusted himself off, shaking his head as the others moved into the background to film inside. There was a wry smile tugging at his lips, and Shane could not tell if the tinge of red on his face was alcohol or something else as he nodded towards the water. “Guess we’ll find out.” </p><p>
  <br/>
<br/>
<strong>xv.</strong>
</p><p>Later, the nurse told Shane he’d been out for an entire day, but that he’d live with just a few scratches from the broken glass. He’d been lucky that someone had found and hauled all six-four of him out of that place from beneath where the ceiling had partially collapsed. Shane remembered none of it.</p><p>Later, he flipped through the channels on the TV in his room, reading about the freak fire at the Biltmore caused by faulty wiring on the second floor. Thirty people had been trapped in the rooftop as the east wing burned, but had miraculously survived with injuries. Three people had died, though their names were not listed. Somewhere inside him, a place where he did not want to admit existed, knew there were more, but again perhaps his memory was no longer as infallible as he’d thought it was. </p><p>Or it was, more simply...</p><p>Ryan was sitting beside him then, his eyes red and deep bags beneath more frightening than the bruises on his arms.</p><p>Shane did not <em> ask are you alright, what happened </em> , or even <em> what the fuck, you should be home, look at you </em>. Instead, beyond all comprehension, he asked, “Did you solve it?”</p><p>“Shane, what?”</p><p>“Your frat ghosts.” The ceiling was an ugly off-white, though clean. Shane looked at his bandaged arm and flexed, finding he did not hurt as much as he’d thought, even if it did not seem he should’ve gotten away so lightly. He grinned weakly, shaking his head. “...Whatever it was. Faulty wiring, huh.”</p><p>And then Ryan was on him, all of him, and for once Shane thanked whatever it was out there, logic or math or gravity or whatever the hell Ryan believed in, that he could feel those arms around his shoulders again.</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>xvi.</strong>
</p><p>“Welcome to this week’s episode of BuzzFeed Unsolved, where we investigate the mysterious collegiate society known as the Order of Gimghoul and the spooky stories surrounding its founding.”</p><p>“So we’re talking about a frat today.”</p><p>“Not just <em> any </em>frat story, we’re getting into midnight duels, haunted castles, railroad tycoons—”</p><p>“Whoa, the Vanderbilts? They’re still around, aren’t they? Hope you don’t get us sued again, Ryan.”</p><p>“Considering neither Putin nor the mafia has come after us yet, they’re welcome to try.”</p><p>“Oooh, showing those biceps on camera. Getting bold now, aren’t we?”</p><p>“Oh, I <em> wish </em>. Anyway, let’s get into the story.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>the maybe-haunted castle/society is <a href="https://gradschool.unc.edu/funding/gradschool/weiss/interesting_place/history/castle.html">real</a> (strictly a non-murdery bunch, tho, likely), but sadly the indoor river is not (i just really fucking love them.)</p></blockquote></div></div>
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